The Moving Stone

by Jacqueline Beard

  Lawrence lost no time in taking advantage of the opportunity, leapt from his bike, and steered it into the front of the house. He unlatched a wooden gate to the side which he hadn't seen from the road. There was no lock and Lawrence pushed the cycle through and lay it on the ground at the rear. Though the sky was clear, the bike was well-hidden, and only the sharpest eyes would notice the glint of metal in the moonlight. Lawrence tried the side door, but it wouldn't budge. The side window was another matter. Although open, it was too small to climb through. But the rear window to the dining room was on the latch and easily big enough to enter. Lawrence opened it using a pocketknife and climbed through closing it behind him. With a police officer close at hand, he could not risk using the gas mantle. Darkness cloaked the cold, draughty house, and he fought his fears as he felt his way through. He took the stairs two at a time, safe in the knowledge that he had a few moments before anyone would hear him, and soon arrived on the landing. Lawrence removed the tin from his pocket and lit a candle, before holding it low to the floor. The landing doors led to three bedrooms, and he glimpsed a blue bow covered in dust and hair, lying on the ground by the entrance to the middle room. Lawrence shook his head in disgust. The bow must have belonged to Bertha and out of respect, if not good policing, someone should have moved it. "Slapdash," he muttered aloud.

  The bedroom doors were ajar, but it wasn't hard to identify the one in which Bertha had recently expired. The smell of death permeated the landing but was most objectionable by the middle room. Lawrence pushed the door open and went inside. The freshly painted bedroom was empty and clean though dust coated the windowsill and skirting boards. There was no rug or carpet, and white paint speckled the floorboards. A cupboard hung open by the window, its position identical to the one in the Portway house. Though not surprised that this should be the case, Lawrence still shuddered at the sight of it. He approached the cupboard. There was no door furniture, and if closed properly, it would not be possible to open it again. He used his boot to push it to its widest extent, moving his head as the worst of the odour assailed him. Lawrence set the candle on the floor and reached for a handkerchief, holding it over his nose as he surveyed the scene. Bertha's body was safely in the morgue, but a mess of her dried blood and hair still coated the rough floorboards. Nobody had attempted to clean it, and there was a clear impression of a footprint nearby. Lawrence raised the candle and tried to estimate the size of the print. Whoever made it wore boots roughly the same size as his own. He pushed the cupboard too and followed the faint outline of the footprints across the room, expecting them to lead to the door. One set did, but a second trail unexpectedly led to the far corner of the room. Lawrence put the candle on the floor then ran a hand over the walls and the skirting boards. Something wasn't right, and there was no obvious reason for someone to walk to the corner of an empty room. None the wiser when he finished, Lawrence crouched down and examined the floorboards to find a hole the size of a penny piece caused by a knot in the wood where the board met the wall. Lawrence pushed his fingers inside and touched something soft. He pulled it out and held to the light, interest turning to disgust as he opened it. The paint-spattered cloth contained the remains of a half-eaten meat pie. Lawrence returned the cloth to its hiding place and wiped his hands on his suit before extinguishing the candle. He stood in the darkness for a few minutes, visualising Bertha's last moments while his eyes grew accustomed to the dark. Then he returned to the landing before descending the stairs to find a shadow looming through the door light. The policeman had returned to his post, preventing an exit through the front of the house. Lawrence shook his head. He had half expected this, but it was still inconvenient. He returned to the back of the house and climbed through the rear window, regretting his decision to examine the property. He had given little thought to what he might find in the house but had hoped for a clue. A footprint and a half-eaten pie fell short of his worst expectations. And now he needed to find a way out of the rear garden without drawing attention to himself – a hard enough feat under normal circumstances but next to impossible carrying a cycle. For a fleeting moment, he considered leaving the bicycle behind. But it had been useful so far and was quicker than walking or using public transport, and he dismissed the idea. He located the bike and wheeled it to the bottom of the garden searching for an exit route. To his relief, the rudimentary fence only comprised two lengths of wire. He manoeuvred the bicycle through, but the neighbouring garden was more established, and he fought through a thick hedge to get to the other side. Lawrence slid the cycle under the bottom of the hedge, emerging with a stained coat and twigs in his hair. Picking his way past rows of winter cabbages, he found himself at the rear of an unlit house with an unlocked iron side gate. A moment later he was clear of the house and making his way on foot to Church Road. Lawrence glanced at his fob watch. It wasn't too late, and he shouldn't disturb the household. It was time to get on his bike and make his way back. After a shaky start, he was almost level with the junction, cursing the squeaking cycle when he heard the whir of wheels behind him. Someone was travelling at speed. Lawrence vaguely wondered what the urgency was at that time of night. Then a sickening thud came from nowhere, accompanied by a searing pain on the side of his head. Lawrence reeled in shock, fell from the cycle and clutched his skull. Half dazed, he examined his palm. It was wet but he couldn't see the colour of the substance dripping from his skin in the dark. He held it to his nose and smelled a familiar metallic odour. Trembling, Lawrence reached for the cycle, and his fingers brushed a heavy object wet with blood. His blood. Someone had cycled past at speed and thrown half a brick. It could have killed him. Lawrence's head was throbbing. He pressed two fingers against his temple, checking for fragments of bone, but somehow his head was still intact. He staggered to his feet and recovered the cycle before considering his next move. But as he glanced behind, a shadowy figure moved along the road. He looked again. The man was speeding forwards and coming straight towards him. Adrenaline coursed through his body as Lawrence realised that his assailant had circled the road and was coming back for another try. Ignoring the pain and blood streaming from his head, Lawrence leapt onto the cycle, weaving and dodging through the roads of East Ham until he reached the safety of Buxton Road.

  CHAPTER 15

  Tampered Will

  Saturday, February 25, 1899

  Dear Michael

  Well, our letters must have crossed. No sooner do I write to you asking if you have found Ella's will than you send me a transcript. I dread to think how much time you have taken in duplicating the document, and in your best handwriting. I can see from the gaps in the text, and the question marks how difficult it must have been to read. I am not surprised you almost gave up, and I cannot thank you enough for persevering. Please don't apologise for the missing words and paragraphs. I am all too familiar with the inconsistencies in legal writing. For every solicitor who wields a fountain pen like a calligrapher, there is another as unskilled as a spider. You have had the bad luck to happen upon the latter. But what you have transcribed, upon closer inspection, tells an interesting story. And not one that I have chanced upon before during this kind of investigation. The anomaly is in the codicil to the will, which I can see because I have filled in some gaps despite not having seen the original document. But having pondered the paragraphs overnight, I have made reasonable guesses at the missing words based on the use of language. I believe the writer intended the last section to read as follows:

  "Shortly after the death of the said deceased which took place on the eighth day of September eighteen hundred and fifty-one, the said Herbert Morse discovered the will in a writing table among the private papers of the deceased. The word 'Ann' had been added after 'Elizabeth', and the name 'Edward' was inscribed in pencil before the surname 'Halls' after the original will was written. The said Arthur Morse and Herbert Morse jointly made oath that they verily believe the special writing is similar to the handwriting of the said deceased. But after diligent enquiry, they c
annot ascertain when and where this alteration took place."

  According to your notes, they proved the will and distributed Ella's legacies in the usual manner. So, the brothers cannot have been unduly concerned with the pencilled entries. Ella must have been a generous woman for she left many gifts upon her death, including substantial donations to the vicar. I have seen the handsome glass window at the east end of the church which she paid for from the will. And now we find out that Ella funded the relocation of the organ and donated to the parish poor. She even left gifts to several religious societies for spreading the word of the Lord abroad, of which I am sure, you approve. Yet is it not curious that somebody inked the will save for two names written in pencil? Why would that happen? The obvious answer is that Ella was unsure of the beneficiary's names – but who leaves money to someone with whom they are not intimately acquainted? Yet, if someone other than Ella made the entries, then why were they written differently to the original document?

  Do you see where this is leading, Michael? I cannot help myself. I see mysteries everywhere, but there is some justification in pursuing this one. Ella's brothers were content to see her will enacted and would not have done so if troubled by the contents. Her family knew her well, particularly Arthur, with whom she lived. He must have met her friends, but curiously didn't state this in the codicil. The brothers seem more concerned with the date of the pencil marks rather than the content. Ella also left bequests to her family who, thanks to your records, are easily identifiable.

  I have made a list of all the beneficiaries, but particularly the names on the corrected entry, that is to say, Elizabeth Ann, the wife of Edward Halls. She is not family as far as I can tell, nor am I convinced that she is a servant. Perhaps she was Ella's friend, and if I am fortunate, she may still be alive. There are missing facts in the will, and I mean to track them down. It is good to be back on the trail again, and this work is distracting me from darker thoughts.

  I remain your friend always.

  Violet

  CHAPTER 16

  A Sore Head

  Tuesday, March 7, 1899

  Lawrence sat at the table, clutching his bandaged head and trying to ignore the throbbing in his temple. He had returned late the previous night, put a towel on his pillow and gone straight to bed without examining his injured head. When he'd awoken fully clothed, he'd moistened a flannel and dabbed nervously at the dried blood. The wound was deep but not bad enough to send for a doctor. Lawrence had changed his shirt and gone downstairs, dreading the inevitable reaction from the Wards. James Ward had already left for the foundry, but Agnes had stared at him in horror. "What on earth have you done to yourself?" she had demanded. Lawrence had already rehearsed his story.

  "I fell off the bicycle," he'd said ruefully.

  "I'm not surprised riding around late at night. It's a shame that whatever it was couldn't wait until morning."

  Lawrence hadn't replied.

  "You'll need to get that bandaged," Agnes had continued.

  "Please don't trouble yourself. It's unnecessary."

  "I don't want blood all over my tablecloth."

  Lawrence had checked his wound to find it open and oozing again. Agnes had sighed and passed the baby to Lawrence. She turned tail and reappeared a few moments later carrying a bandage which she wound tightly around his head.

  That was an hour ago, and the mild headache he had woken up with had escalated into a pulsing fury. Lawrence forced himself to drink a cup of tea and was working up the enthusiasm for a cold slice of toast when a loud knocking set off another wave of nausea. Lawrence closed his eyes as Agnes tiptoed from the room and answered the door.

  "I've brought some oil for the lodger." Gilbert Cooper's voice boomed through the hallway, and Lawrence lowered his head, hoping to God that Agnes would send him away.

  "I'll take that, Gil," said Agnes. "He's not too good today."

  Lawrence didn't hear a reply and assumed that Gilbert had gone, but his heart sank when Agnes returned with her neighbour in tow.

  "Blimey, you've come a cropper," said Cooper jocularly. "I've brought you some oil."

  "Thank you," said Lawrence, pointedly ignoring the rusty tin on the table. Agnes glared at Gil and swiped it away, but it was too late. An orange stain leeched into the tablecloth. If Gilbert noticed, he didn't acknowledge it and turned to Lawrence.

  "How did you get on with Bill Donaldson?"

  "He was helpful," said Lawrence, trying not to encourage further conversation. His head was swimming, and he needed to lie down.

  "Yes, but did he tell you about the girls?"

  "Which one?"

  "Any of them. Or did you settle for stories about the local criminals?"

  "Mr Donaldson told me about the girls," said Lawrence. "I've spoken to my editor, and he wants me to concentrate on the murders and disappearances."

  "Does he now?" Gil Cooper picked at a jagged piece of his fingernail and flicked it under the table. Agnes glared but said nothing.

  "Yes. He thinks our readers will be more interested in them. Mr Donaldson knew the missing girls. I didn't ask him about Amelia Jeffs, but I got inside the house in Portway."

  "How?"

  "Mr Manisier is trying to let it out."

  "You've met Manisier? How is the old rogue?"

  "I couldn't say," said Lawrence. "We weren't together for very long. But he didn't strike me as a rogue, and he wasn't that old."

  "You don't know him, though. A bit too slippery for my tastes," said Gilbert, "and very fond of the ladies."

  "Which ladies?"

  "Any. He's not choosy."

  "Mr Manisier seemed perfectly respectable to me," said Lawrence.

  "I'm glad you think so." Gilbert Cooper appeared affronted by Lawrence's confidence in the house agent's character. He glowered at Lawrence with his arms crossed.

  "I suppose you've heard about young Bertha Russ?" said Lawrence, changing the subject.

  Cooper nodded. "Yes. I've read the paper. It looks like your mob spared no time in getting the gory details."

  "My mob?"

  "The local reporters."

  "Oh, yes. Of course. They found Bertha in a cupboard, you know."

  "Poor little mite. I hadn't heard." Agnes Ward scooped her infant from the floor and cuddled her tight. "How could anybody be so cruel?"

  "It's hard to fathom," said Lawrence opening his mouth to change the subject again, but Gil Cooper beat him to it.

  "Anyway, you didn't tell me how you did that?" He pointed at Lawrence's temple with dirty nails.

  "I fell off the bike," said Lawrence, trotting out the same excuse he'd successfully used on Agnes.

  "You should stick to the train. I've seen four-year-olds with a better sense of balance."

  "Charming," said Lawrence. "I'm getting the hang of it now. It's been a few years."

  "Are you finished then?"

  "Cycling?"

  "No." Gilbert snorted. "Reporting. Have you got your story?"

  "More or less," said Lawrence. "I've accumulated quite a lot of useful information though I suppose I ought to go to Walthamstow and write a brief account of what happened there. I don't suppose it will take very long."

  "Are you leaving us so soon?" Agnes Ward started to clear the cups away in an attempt to get on with her chores. Gil Cooper was reclining in his chair looking as if he had all day to spare.

  "In a week or so," said Lawrence, trying not to give too much away. Two days would be more than enough in his guise as a reporter, but solving a series of murders, if it were possible, would take far longer.

  "And you, Gil?" Agnes was getting impatient now.

  "What time is it?"

  "Ten thirty," said Lawrence looking at his watch.

  "Yes. I've got a job in Barking. I suppose I'd better get on. See you around, Mr Harpham. And Agnes – give my regards to James." Cooper winked as Agnes showed him to the door.

  "How are you feeling?" she asked when she returned.

  "B
etter," said Lawrence, thankful that the pounding in his temples had tailed off.

  "Sorry about Mr Cooper," she continued. "A nice man, but he can talk the hind leg off a donkey."

  "I don't mind. He's been helpful."

  "You're not really going to Walthamstow looking like that?"

  Lawrence turned and looked in the mirror. "I must," he said. "It's either that or go back to bed. I may as well make the most of the day."

  "But you'll be back for tea?"

  Lawrence nodded. "Barring another accident," he said.

  CHAPTER 17

  Haunted

  Monday, February 27, 1899

  Dear Michael

  Forgive the absence of a chatty opening to this letter. I write in haste to request your wise counsel on two matters that have happened in the brief time since I last wrote to you. The first of these occurred last night, or was it in the early hours of the morning? It could have been any time for I did not consult a clock, although I can say with certainty that it was dark. Though restless, I must have fallen asleep. I dreamed that I was back at school, sitting at my little desk. I remember watching Miss Laycock reach for the globe she kept in the corner. "Where is that?" she asked, tapping her ruler on the top of the globe. I tried to remember the name of the landmass by the north pole, but try as I might, it would not come. "Well, Miss Mills?" she said. "Try harder." She tapped again and again as she waited for my response. Suddenly, she lunged towards me, and the tapping of the ruler turned into a crescendo of noise. Louder and louder, quicker and quicker it went until her face was almost touching mine. Then she opened her mouth, and her teeth turned into spikes, and I screamed and woke up.